Christmas makes me nostalgic, as evidenced by my journal entry yesterday. I can taste, hear, and smell the excitement of many past Christmas seasons, this time of year.
As I thought today about my previous entry, something seemed amiss. Russ' comment got me thinking: were the 1950's really so innocent?
Of course not. It was me that was innocent. And now I realize, it isn't the 'fifties for which I'm homesick. It's my childhood.
I don't want to have to know about a fiend who would strangle a pregnant mother and cut her baby out of her belly. I don't want to think about my countrymen being in Iraq, miserable and lonely, some of them dying. I want to go to bed knowing that Mamma and Daddy will take care of everything tomorrow, right down to which socks I wear.
That way, if there are any wrong choices made, it's not my fault.
I don't want to have to make the hard decisions we adults face, like which politician is the lesser of two evils, and whether it's wiser to save all your money for old age, or eat, drink and be merry, enjoying life now. I want somebody to tell me which things are good and which are evil. I want to know where the line is that seperates black from white, so I won't have to try and figure out what to do with life's many shades of gray.
I want to believe in Santa Claus again, and the tooth fairy, and even the Easter bunny. I want my childhood back! And I thank God that, several times each Yuletide season, random memories are triggered that take me back, however briefly, to the simplicity of my childhood. That's the magic of Christmas.
As I said before...
Beam me up, Scotty.